Impossible Choices
by OpheliaKitt
Summary: The Musketeers are met with some impossible choices with consequences that could be dire for more than one of them. When it looks as though the unthinkable has happened, they will need to decide - Do we go on? An entry in the March-April Fête des Mousquetaires.
1. Chapter 1

Impossible Choices

Chapter 1

The fire raged at the eastern flank. The screams of men and canon fire still rent the air. They had long ago fired their muskets and pistols and any idea of reloading now was as futile as this whole mission had proved to be. There was that unmistakeable smell in the air of death and destruction – smoke, and mud, and the tang of blood.

Porthos wiped the dirt from his brow as he pulled his boot free of the squelching mud that was trying to keep him there, when all he wanted was to find his brothers amidst all this carnage.

A sudden burst of flame and an eruption too close to him sent Porthos flying backwards where he landed with a hard thud on his back. He lay there stunned, his head ringing from the blast or the impact and a new searing pain emanating from his side. He tried to rise but couldn't. His body would not cooperate. He tried to fight off the sudden encroaching darkness, but the pain in his side made even the thought of movement unbearable.

He had to find the others. He had to make sure they were alright.

He had seen Aramis hard-pressed by a number of enemy combatants once his firing perch had been discovered; the bodies of several of them had fallen to his remarkable aim. The odds had been stacked against him, but that was never a thing to faze the marksman.

D'Artagnan was near Porthos, holding his own, but Porthos was certain that this battle was far bloodier and more chaotic than anything the whelp had yet seen. He hadn't even received his commission yet = he shouldn't be out in this madness.

And where was Athos? Porthos tried to force his mind to focus. He had lost track of Athos soon after the battle had begun. Athos was clever, but for all of his talk about head over heart, Porthos knew that Athos would willingly sacrifice his own life if it meant saving another. The fact that Porthos could not place Athos' whereabouts on the battlefield sent a shiver down his spine …or maybe that was the new pains ravaging his body.

He couldn't look down to examine his wound. The impact had left his body uncooperative; he couldn't lift his arms or his head to determine what had happened. There was just cold, pain and darkness, and the need to find his brothers.

The pain wrapped icy fingers securely around Porthos, strangling him, pulling him down into darkness and snuffed out the sounds of the rest of the world. A high tone echoed in his eardrums as he slipped away.

A desperate cry broke up the tone suddenly – a cry of someone he knew. "D'Artagnan," he muttered as the darkness consumed him.

oOo

Aramis stood in the medical tent that had been erected for when the violence had finally ceased. The dead and the dying, the devastated and the desperate lay on cots and pallets around him. He fought to block out the muffled groans and tears of the men in his care…that is until the still, silent form of the young Gascon was brought to him. Then, more than anything, he begged for sound, for movement, for any indication of life from the brother who lay bloodied before him.

The other men were quieting. He could do nothing more for them, and the ones he had been able to save were now being tended to by others – spooning broth, or changing compresses, anything to bring comfort to the injured.

Aramis sat silently staring into the pale face of D'Artagnan. The young man had been carried in with a blade still protruding from his side. The soldier carrying him had enough sense to not pull the blade, preventing the wound from bleeding out on the field. Nonetheless, D'Artagnan's naturally olive complexion was now waxy and pale. He held his brother's hand with one hand and reached forward with the other to wipe the sweat from the young man's brow with a clean cloth.

He was pale, and weak, but he was alive. Aramis sent a silent prayer up to heaven to beg that he remain so.

The flaps of the tent were pushed forward suddenly and Athos burst into the room. He stopped immediately as he saw Aramis sitting vigil at D'Artagnan's side. Aramis stood quickly and stared at the swordsman. As one they moved towards each other into a firm embrace, their relief at finding one another palpable. With so many men on the battlefield, the four musketeers had been separated, illuminated only by the sporadic bursts of fire.

When Athos pulled away he looked pale – as though he had aged another ten years in that short embrace.

"D'Artagnan. Is he?" was all the man could mumble.

"Alive, thank God, but barely," replied Aramis softly.

The relief was clear in Athos' eyes. He staggered forwards a few steps and Aramis put his arm out to steady him. Brown eyes full of concern met blue.

"I'm alright," said Athos sincerely, "Just tired." Aramis nodded. "What happened?"

"He fought. Bravely. The man who brought him here said that he was with D'Artagnan near where he and Porthos were pinned down by the eastern flank. An explosion went off as the enemy made their final push. Apparently D'Artagnan was trying to protect the men that had been stunned from the blast. He managed to kill two before the third was able to stab him with his dagger," said Aramis. He sighed heavily and ran his hand through his hair. "He also has a nasty lump on the back of his head which bled quite a bit. He hasn't come to yet but he moaned finally as I was placing the stitches on the head wound."

Athos nodded. "Porthos?" he asked.

Aramis shook his head and his brow furrowed even more as he ran his hand back through his dark hair. "I had hoped he'd be with you. I haven't been able to leave here to look. There are so many injured Athos…" he said desperately, his eyes shining in the muted light.

"I will look for him. I will find him," Athos said rising, his blue eyes gleaming.

"You're dead on your feet," Aramis scoffed.

"And you are any better?" Athos asked. He had noticed Aramis' hand tremble slightly as he spoke. Athos knew that his compassionate brother had not rested for a moment in his ministrations for the others since he had come off the battlefield. He couldn't be sure if the blood that marked the man's forehead was his own, that of an enemy or the blood of one of the lives he had either saved or had lost within the tent. A quick glance around the tent gave Athos a little bit of insight into the strain on the medic.

"I will find him, Aramis," Athos repeated firmly. "We will need your skill here when D'Artagnan wakes up. You have saved many lives today." There was no uncertainty in the tone. Aramis sighed and ran his hand through his hair again.

"Athos, please…be careful…" he whispered. The marksman was clearly torn. His desperate need to find his brother, battled with the urge to care for the one in the bed at his side, which fought still against every instinct in him to protect the third brother who was standing in front of him.

"I will," said Athos, as he uncharacteristically pulled Aramis once more into a tight embrace, the desperate need for support and reassurance present in both soldiers.

oOo


	2. Chapter 2

Impossible Choices

Chapter 2

Athos left the tent and staggered slightly once more.

He had been thrown in one of the explosions and his vision swam in and out, but he knew that he would not take Aramis from his place at their brother's side. If anything were to happen to D'Artagnan, Aramis was the best man to handle it. It was too much to ask him to leave his place to come and search the bodies of the dead for their fourth. Aramis could not handle finding Porthos that way. If anyone were to find him, it would be Athos.

He pushed his own pain aside as he neared the front lines where French troops were separating the bodies of their fallen from that of the enemy. Silently he searched their faces looking for, and fearing to find, one among the rest.

The day had not begun like this.

The Musketeers had ridden into Toulouse in service to the King. They had been tasked with quelling a small uprising. Instead they had arrived on the edge of battle. The Duke had formed his army and was prepared to protect his duchy from the influence of the Spanish.

The battle was meaningless. Just a thorn in Louis' side – a jab at the King of France from the King of Spain to remind him of the very present threat that loitered at his borders. In the end there was no ground gained or lost – only souls lost to the machinery of warfare and the egos of court.

Athos walked among the still faces of those men that died in the service to the crown toward the Captain of the Duke's army.

He met Athos with a grim nod. "We appreciated your help today," he said curtly.

"The King had no idea how dire the situation here was. We were told to expect a small skirmish of peasants," Athos replied.

The Captain frowned. "The Duke has entreated the Cardinal many times. We are constantly being used as a touch-point by Spain to remind France that an enemy is forever poised at her door," he said gruffly.

Athos felt his jaw lock. There was much he would have liked to say regarding the Cardinal and his priorities, but this was not the time, nor was it his place to speak against the will of the King – even if Louis was manipulated by the scarlet vampire lingering at his shoulder.

"The King appreciates the sacrifice of your people. His faith in your skills speaks highly of his esteem for the duchy," Athos said. It wasn't a lie exactly. The men had fought well and had seemingly lived at the edge of battle for many years now.

"Is there something I can help you with, Lieutenant?" the Captain asked, pulling Athos back into the moment.

"Yes. My brother. He is missing. He was not returned to the medical tent nor have I seen his body…amongst the others," said Athos curtly.

The Captain frowned. "Normally I would have said that the man fled, but I saw the mettle of your men on display today. No man you'd call brother would flee from danger. There have been rumours that the Spanish have been taking prisoners of the fallen. No ransom is ever demanded. They are taken from the battlefield and never heard from again. It's said they're spirited away in the bellies of their trade ships and sold as slaves."

Athos frowned at these words, and something must have shifted in his eyes as the Captain took a breath and stepped back.

"The enemy's camp is a few hours south of here. From there they are a two day's march to the sea. If your brother is with them, and is well enough to row, they will have him on that ship within the next three days."

Athos nodded, the wheels in his head spinning at a dizzying pace as he processed this information.

"I need to get a message to Paris," he said curtly.

"I'll have one of my fastest riders prepared," the Captain replied.

With a nod, Athos turned and made his way back towards the medical tent. He hesitated on the precipice, unsure how he would explain the situation to his volatile brother who was waiting inside.

He had been gone searching the bodies for some time, so he was concerned about what the state of their youngest may have devolved into. With a steadying breath, Athos pushed through the tent flap and entered.

Aramis was much in the same position as when he had left him, bent over D'Artagnan as he cared for his wounds. The night was growing late and every moment that passed was one where Porthos slipped further and further from their reach.

Aramis stiffened, his body tensing intuitively as Athos entered. He slowly turned to face the swordsman as though awaiting the blow from his executioner – silent, resolved, but terrified. Athos did his best to not flinch at the anguish that he saw in his brother's eyes.

Ducking his head from the dark gaze, Athos stepped further into the tent. "How is D'Artagnan?"

"He regained consciousness. I wasn't able to persuade him to eat something, but he is well. Or he will be in a few days' time when it will be safe for him to be up and about."

"Good. That's good," Athos replied; the wheels still whirred.

"Athos. Tell me."

Athos' brow furrowed at Aramis' demand.

"Tell me Athos," the medic insisted. There was a plea in the voice that terrified Athos.

"He is not dead," Athos said immediately and Aramis remembered his need to breathe.

"If he is not dead, then where is he?" Aramis asked, though his eyes clouded instantly as his mind leapt to the only possible conclusion.

"He has been taken," Athos said bluntly. "He and a number of others are to be sold as slaves. It is likely that they will reach the ships in the harbour in as little as three days."

"No," gasped Aramis, as his breath suddenly caught in his throat. He swayed dangerously and Athos quickly pushed him into a chair.

"Athos! They can't! We've got to follow them! We've got to get him back!" Aramis practically shouted, his words leaving him fast and furiously. Athos' firm hand on his shoulder was all that kept him in the chair.

"We will," Athos swore. "I will be setting off at first light. I promise you, Aramis, I will find him."

Aramis' eyes flared immediately at this comment. "If you think for one moment that –"

"What of D'Artagnan?" Athos interrupted, halting the marksman in his diatribe. Aramis' brow furrowed instantly and a deep pain resounded from the depths of his eyes.

"Athos –"

"Aramis, I do not have the skills you have medically to help D'Artagnan. He will need you. I am of no use here, but I can be out there, searching for Porthos."

"Athos, you cannot make me choose!"

Athos frowned and gripped his brother more tightly. "I could never," he said, "So you will not have to. I am choosing for you. I will go to bring one brother back to safety, and you will stay here to make sure that D'Artagnan returns to us as well."

"Athos –" Aramis tried again. He could not find the words to communicate the turmoil that his soul was now in. He was utterly divided. How would they go on if the worst came to pass and either Porthos or D'Artagnan were to die? Would he and Athos be able to continue? Would not one or the other or all of them harbour the guilt of that loss for the rest of their lives? "There has to be another way," he whispered desperately as his hand gripped Athos' forearm like a man would cling to a lifeline.

"Aramis," said Athos, his blue eyes betraying his own torment, "There is no other way. When D'Artagnan awakes –"

"He will insist you ride," came a faint, but angry voice from behind them. Both Athos and Aramis whipped their heads around to look into the angry half-opened eyes of their youngest.

D'Artagnan fought to raise himself into a seated position, but Aramis' swift hands held him down.

"Lie still," he soothed as D'Artagnan struggled.

"I will not," the stubborn Gascon panted. "Aramis, Athos – you cannot be serious! You need to go after Porthos!" D'Artagnan gasped, glaring at his brothers.

"D'Artagnan, please calm down! You'll open your wound and you can't afford to exert yourself like this!" pleaded Aramis.

D'Artagnan pulled in deep breaths, the flames in his eyes undiminishing though both Athos and Aramis could read the effort it was causing him to stay alert. He gripped Aramis' arm, his brown eyes locked on the medic's.

"You cannot stay here…I will be alright…Porthos," D'Artagnan panted, "He needs you…I could not live with myself if something happened to him because you were obliged to stay here to babysit me…"

"D'Artagnan, it is no obligation -" Aramis started.

"No Aramis, I can see how torn you are. I am safe here. I swear, I will rest and recover. You need to go with Athos. You need to find Porthos. You need to bring him back," said D'Artagnan fervently, his grip on the marksman's forearm was weakening. "Promise me," he said.

Aramis nodded, his own dark eyes reflecting the resolution of his brother's. D'Artagnan shifted his gaze to Athos. "Promise me Athos. Promise me you'll bring him back," he said. Athos clenched his jaw, once again fighting the emotions that threatened to pour out of him in response to the earnest and desperate plea of his brother.

"I swear," he said with conviction. D'Artagnan exhaled slowly and nodded, relenting finally to the pull of his injuries. Aramis checked D'Artagnan's pulse as his eyes closed. He stood slowly and raked a hand down his face. He looked at Athos and saw the fierce determination blazing in his oceanic eyes.

"We ride at first light. I will inform Treville."

Aramis nodded. "I will speak to the Captain about having D'Artagnan moved and his course of treatment."

They both looked down at their brother where he lay. They would find Porthos. They had to. They had made a promise.

oOo

The world was slowly brightening around him.

This was the third time Porthos has come round. The first was when the men unceremoniously had loaded him onto the cart. The second was when they had doused him with a bucket of cold water to see if he was still breathing. As weak and disoriented as he was, the man with the bucket had paid for that as Porthos had quickly grabbed the man's wrist and turned it harshly to elicit a sickening crack and a howl from the bucket wielder. The blow to the back of his head that resulted probably didn't help much, but to Porthos, it had been worth it.

He could sense the dawn breaking around him; he could hear the muffled noises of the camp coming awake and the exotic tones of the Spanish language that lilted so richly off the tongue of his brother, but now sounded rough and ugly when uttered by the men that held him prisoner.

He kept his eyes closed, knowing that the impending assault would come when his pupils finally met the daylight again, and he tried to assess his situation.

He was lying on the ground. There were other bodies nearby, and his hands had been tied with a rough cord of rope that had bound him tightly and chafed his wrists. Metal shackles and a short chain were fastened at his ankles.

There was a pain in his head – an echoing reminder of the final blast that had thrown him paired with the new lump his agitation had earned him. The blast had stunned him and the ache in his back was a testament to his hard landing. His side throbbed, but his shirt was now stiff and dry. He could feel the bandage wrapped around his mid-section. Whatever the wound may have looked like, it had at least been treated – he was no longer bleeding anyway.

"Se despierta!" (_Wake them)_ called a voice and heavy footsteps made their way towards where Porthos lay.

A rough shove and a cry of pain from someone nearby had Porthos opening his eyes. The light was as painful as he had expected. The noise of the pistol fired into the air near them had not been and he reeled; his head felt like it would shatter.

"On your feet!" shouted a heavyset man holding a pistol in thickly accented French. The younger man at his side stood silently next to him, carefully eyeing the prisoners. He looked to be about D'Artagnan's age and even resembled him in some ways, but there was something unnerving in the cold detached way he eyed the injured men in front of him.

Porthos staggered to his feet helping the man next to him who struggled with a wound to his leg. He sobbed quietly as his leg shook under the pressure to keep himself upright. There were six of them in total bound together as Spanish prisoners.

"The tide leaves in three days. If you want to live, you will be on that ship. If you don't…"

The sudden blast from the pistol held in the younger man's hand startled all of the captives, as the injured man next to Porthos crumpled in a heap next to him. His leg no longer caused him pain as his life poured out of him from the pistol shot. Without any kind of reaction to having just taken a life, the young man turned and walked away leaving the other sneering at the shocked and injured men that had been tethered together.

Three more soldiers approached them carrying muskets.

One held a lash. They unceremoniously pulled the dead man from the rest of the group and with a crack of the whip and no other words, Porthos and the others began to march.

oOo

* * *

_**A/N: Thanks for all the interest so far! Like I said, these chapters will come fast and furious so the whole thing will be wrapped up by the 30th! Hope you enjoyed chapter 2. Looking forward to reading your reactions. Cheers!**_


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N: Thanks for all your amazing reviews - Glad you're enjoying this! Onto chapter three...**_

* * *

Impossible Choices

Chapter 3

Athos and Aramis left at first light once Aramis did one final assessment of D'Artagnan.

D'Artagnan, for his part, roused himself as best as he could and acquiesced to all of Aramis' demands, eager to encourage his brother in his pursuit of their lost fourth. He wouldn't be the cause of anything happening to Porthos and he would not have Aramis' guilt accompany him on his rescue of their brother.

Nonetheless, Aramis was sullen and withdrawn as he and Athos set out. His eyes were dark and downcast beneath the brim of his hat and his brow was furrowed as he rode slightly ahead of Athos towards where the Captain had indicated the enemy had been camped.

They had taken the wooded road, which added an hour to their journey, but with the pitch still smoking from the previous day's battle, they couldn't risk travelling in the open. They had no idea what they would find when they reached the enemy's campsite.

Athos too was grim, but knowing his brother's anguish of having to leave one to save another, he nudged his horse forward so that he was riding next to the medic.

"Were you able to rest at all?" Athos asked quietly, keeping his gaze fixed ahead.

Aramis frowned. "In as much as you did," he replied. Athos couldn't stop his lips from twitching at his brother's tart reply. Aramis sighed. "I'm sorry Athos. I'm worried about leaving D'Artagnan. He lost a lot of blood…and I don't know the Duke's men…it is hard for me to trust them with D'Artagnan's care. On top of that, Porthos has been missing for hours now. Who knows what kind of a state he could be in."

The worry in his brother's voice was obvious. They had left as soon as they were able to, but the men who had taken Porthos had half a day on them at least.

"Perhaps we will be able to intercept them at their camp. If not, we may overtake them on the road; their number and their supplies will encumber them. We will find him Aramis," said Athos confidently. Aramis smiled softly, encouraged slightly by his brother's surety. Without another word they spurred their horses and pushed harder through the trees.

They emerged suddenly from the wooded path, encouraged and disappointed by the lack of noise emanating from the enemy camp. The normal detritus littered the clearing where the enemy had lingered. They had left indiscriminately, not bothering to cover their tracks. Aramis' heart froze as he spied the half covered slumped body of a man left discarded in the open with the remainder of the camp items that had proved superfluous.

Aramis said nothing at first as he examined the body of the dead man. "He never would have made the journey," he said softly, gesturing to the wound on the man's leg that was black with congealed blood. "If their intention is to sell their captives to slavers, they'll need to be presented as fit…or as fit as possible."

"Then there is hope," said Athos. Aramis' eyes were scanning the campsite. After blessing and covering the dead man, he rose and began walking towards the area where the ground was discoloured, soaked through with blood. At the edge of this was a crumpled bit of fabric.

"What is it?" Athos asked.

Aramis turned, the material held limply in his hand. It was Porthos head scarf, noticeably covered in blood.

"He was here," Aramis said as he tucked the material into his doublet, "and he was injured."

"But not badly enough to warrant his execution," said Athos. "There are two sets of tracks leading from this place," he said, examining another part of the campsite. "The path on the right would take them to the harbour if that is their end destination. The one on the left however would take a little longer but would bring them more directly to the border with Spain," said Athos.

"The tracks are too mingled. There seemed to be fewer that headed to sea," said Aramis frustratingly. He removed his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow. He ran his hands through his hair and replaced his hat.

Athos frowned slightly, but seemed to have reached a decision.

"We will head for the coast. The Spanish would not want to keep captives among them for too long. The route to the border would create too many opportunities to cause disruption and potential risks of escape. We also have no reason to believe that the Captain's information is inaccurate," he said. Aramis nodded his agreement, trusting Athos' pragmatism and strategic insights, and his own gut feeling. His natural instinct had never let him down before and had been responsible for saving all of their lives on more than one occasion.

They remounted their horses and followed the path that would lead them to the sea, both men hoping that they had not erred in their judgement. Aramis pressed the scarf tucked inside his jacket closer to his heart.

"Hang on Porthos. We're coming!"

oOo

They marched for hours before they finally rested.

The pain in Porthos' side was excruciating and he was soaked through, but whether that was blood or sweat, at this moment Porthos didn't care. He had doubled over with his wrists pressing upon his knees as he desperately drew in heavy breaths like a drowning man. The others near him were faring no better.

The soldier bearing the lash had been harsh but not cruel. They had all felt the sting of the whip at some point in their cross-country trek, but not as frequently or brutally as some men might have wielded it. Whether that was from some inner compassion or the realization it would be harder to sell damaged slaves was impossible to determine.

The older man next to Porthos collapsed on the ground and lay still. They were in a slightly wooded glade and the shade offered from the trees was a godsend. Two water skins were thrown at their feet, but the captives were too exhausted to notice right away.

With more effort than he would be willing to admit, Porthos stumbled forward and picked up the water skins. He passed them to the three men who were still recovering, their wrists and ankles raw where their bindings chafed.

Porthos knelt next the man on the ground. He patted his face, but received no reaction. Turning the man onto his back, he tried prodding the prone man a little more firmly; still, no response. His vision blurred, but his bound hands searched along the man's neck. The stillness of the pulse told Porthos all he needed.

Catching the eyes of the others, Porthos shook his head as he fell back on his rump. One of the men passed Porthos the water skin and he took a small sip and spit it out to rinse out his mouth before helping himself to a large swallow.

"Maybe we should try rationing this," one man said weighing the water skin in his hands.

The other man who stood by him, shook his balding head shimmering with sweat. "Drink all the water you can. They need us alive and healthy. We're heading to the ships."

"You sure about that?" grumbled the man standing next to Porthos darkly, glancing again at the dead man in front of them. "They've already killed two of us."

Porthos took another drink from the water skin and passed it back to the man next to him. "Either way, our time is short. Drink what you can. We gotta figure out a way outta here."

"Looks like your side's bleeding. You should let me look at it if you can. Won't be able to do much but maybe wash it up a bit," said the man standing next to him. He was tall with a long face but strong muscular arms. An old burn scar was visible running up his arm from where the ropes cut into his wrists and ran towards his elbow. "I'm Jacob by the way. That's Vincent and that's Stefan. This was Damian," he said sadly.

"Porthos," he grumbled. "You been serving with the Duke long?" he asked.

"Long enough," said the angry bald man named Stefan. "Me and Vincent have been serving going on six years," he said as he tried to massage his ankles in the shade of the tree.

"How about you?" Porthos asked as he pulled at his shirt to expose his side to Jacob who had knelt next to him.

"Been with the Duke for almost a year. Was a blacksmith before this," he said as he poured some of the water over Porthos' side, eliciting a hiss from the bigger man. "Sorry," he muttered.

"That's ok," mumbled Porthos. "Blacksmith, eh? Guess that's why you know about treating wounds?"

The man chuckled softly. "You could say that. It looks like they had stitched you, but the marching is pulling at the stitches badly. The bandage must have fallen away as we marched. If we don't get that covered it's going to get infected," he muttered.

Porthos frowned. "Don't know about you, but my Spanish isn't great and the words I do know are not the ones that these soldiers would appreciate hearin'."

The man named Vincent laughed. "You'll have to introduce me to your tutor. I speak Spanish, I can ask for you."

"No," said Porthos. "It's better that they don't know we can understand them. If you can, try to listen in on their conversations as we march. Maybe we can figure out what their plan is for us. It's not dark yet. Not likely we're making camp yet."

The others nodded. Jacob bit his lip, but also nodded. "Hopefully that first guard comes back. He wasn't much to look at but at least he spoke French…"

Before long the men were back up on their feet. With some pleading to their capitalist side, Jacob's hands were temporarily unbound and he was given bandages to cover the wound in Porthos' side and bind what he determined were very bruised if not cracked ribs. He also replaced the bandage that was tied around Vincent's arm and covered his own ankle that was chaffing horribly from the shackles around them. Their chains allowed them to march, but running was out of the question.

Porthos rested in the shade as Jacob tended the others, his bound hands tracing figures in the earth. His side ached and his head still pulsed as though someone was beating it like a rug, but he tried to recover what strength he could. He stood as the guards retied Jacob's wrists and ordered them to their feet to begin the next leg of their march. As the lash cracked over them once again, he hoped that his brothers were close behind and that they would find his message.

oOo


	4. Chapter 4

Impossible Choices

Chapter 4

Athos and Aramis rode hard. Both men were focused on the path of the Spanish they were following and trying not to think of the fates of the brother they left behind or the one they were pursuing.

The sun was approaching its descent on the horizon when Aramis veered off the path suddenly toward a sheltered glade. He dismounted and looking about, he marched forward to where the trees stood casting their shadows toward the centre of the clearing. Athos dismounted close behind him and stood with the horses.

Aramis knelt suddenly near the underbrush. The motions of his hands told Athos that he had found another body. The lack of tears affirmed that thankfully the body was not Porthos. The marksman stood and removed his hat and returned to Athos, running a hand through his dark hair. The day was hot and they had been riding hard.

"Cause of death?" Athos asked.

Aramis replaced his hat. "Hard to say. Heat stroke, exhaustion, God's mercy? Nothing obvious jumps out. His wrists and ankles are raw from where he was bound and his shoulders and the back of his shirt are torn slightly. Signs of a lash, though they did not break the skin," he said.

Athos nodded. "It's clear that they rested here. We'll let the horses rest for a moment. Let's spread out and see if we can learn anything else."

"Aramis," called Athos as he crouched to examine a patch of dirt.

Aramis quickly strode over to Athos holding a bloodied bandage in his hand. He peered over the swordsman's shoulder to look at what he was examining on the ground. There were several figures drawn inconspicuously in the dirt near two heavy divots. The divots were made by a set of large boots and were clearly intentionally pressed into the earth as their owner either sat or stood from that spot. An "X" had been scratched into the earth and below it four dashes.

"Porthos," whispered Aramis. Athos nodded.

"It seems that there are ten guards and four captives."

"They are injured, but have received some kind of medical treatment," Aramis said showing Athos the bandage he had recovered.

"They still have a few hours' lead, but at least we know we chose correctly. We are gaining on them," said Athos confidently. "We should ride for a few more hours and then make camp and try to close a bit more of the distance. With luck, we should overtake them as they near the shore at low tide tomorrow. They will not be able to sail until the next day."

Aramis nodded. "We had better. They say the tide waits for no man, and I will not let Porthos be taken onto that ship."

oOo

From his position across the fire, Athos watched as one worry after another seemed to travel across the medic's face. The flames from the campfire danced across the dark irises of his eyes as he stared into their depths.

Athos looked down and tossed a twig into the blaze. "It would be easier on you if you spoke."

Aramis flinched slightly, as though only just remembering that he was not alone. He raised an eyebrow towards Athos. Athos was as far from talkative as a man could be, but he knew it would be only a matter of time before Aramis would need to ease his anguished thoughts – and when his brothers were distraught, Athos would always be there to support them.

"It may be easier for me, but what of you?" Aramis asked, his eyebrow still inquisitively arched as he regarded his brother across the fire. Athos said nothing, but stretched out his legs and settled in.

Aramis sighed. "I keep replaying the battle in my head…I should have been there with them…If I had been, none of this would have happened. I lost sight of them, and then with the chaos of the aftermath and the number of wounded…"

"Aramis…"

"I know what you're going to say, but the fact remains, I wasn't there," said the marksman, his brow furrowed and his voice strained. He dropped his eyes to the flames again, unable to meet the blue gaze of the swordsman.

"Aramis, if you are to blame in this then so am I."

"Athos, you were on the complete opposite side of the field with the cavalry-"

"And you were fighting for your life from your shooter's roost, severely outnumbered and then were selflessly tending the wounded within the medical tent following the battle. You cannot be in all places at once, brother. You know as well as I do that battlegrounds like that are uncertain at best. You are not responsible for the fates of Porthos or D'Artagnan," said Athos consolingly.

"Perhaps that's what's rankling me so – the fact that everything seems to have travelled beyond my control. Either way I look at it, I've failed one of them. Was abandoning D'Artagnan the correct course? But then would staying back with him not have been equal to abandoning Porthos?" Aramis pleaded, but whether the question was directed at Athos or to a higher power, Athos could not tell.

Rising, he circled the fire and crouched down at Aramis' side, placing his arm firmly on the medic's shoulder.

"You have done and are doing all you can. You tended to D'Artagnan and have left him in capable hands. The Duke's men may not thank you for leaving them with our stubborn and disgruntled Gascon though," he said and paused. "And Porthos…We will find him, Aramis."

"And if we don't? If we arrive too late and they have set sail? Or we arrive and find only his corpse? What then?" asked Aramis, desperately.

Athos frowned. "Are you asking if we shall go on?"

Aramis released a deep shuddering sigh and turned his face slowly to gaze into the bright eyes of the brother next to him. "I don't know," he said truthfully. "After Savoy…I don't know if I could handle losing him Athos…either of them…"

Athos sat silent for a moment, overcome by his brother's fear and grief. His grip on the man tightened and his blue eyes seared with love and affection for his brother. "We will find him Aramis. He is not lost to us yet. As you have told me more than once in our many years together, have faith Aramis," he said, a faint smirk coming to his lips.

Aramis eyes sparkled and his lips twitched. He dropped his head and uttered a soft chuckle. Looking back into Athos' determined face, he asked, "Have faith?"

"As Porthos will have in us. We will find him and make every man pay dearly for any harm that may have come to him."

Aramis said nothing but nodded his head firmly and grasped Athos' forearm, sealing their pact. They would press on. They would find Porthos, come what may. When challenges seemed most dire and the future seemed most bleak, their trust and love for each other would always push them to go on.

oOo

The Spanish made camp as the sun set. The captives' hands were unbound, but the shackles around their legs were securely fastened to a thick tree. There would be no escaping unless they could uproot the towering oak or could somehow break their chains unnoticed.

Two water skins were once more tossed to them along with a single loaf of bread. Jacob divided it evenly and the four Frenchmen quietly choked back the dry bread and sipped slowly from the water. If anything, the sustenance only spurred on their hunger as their stomachs contorted in their desire for more.

Porthos leaned back against the tree breathing heavily. The damage done to his ribs was making it hard for him to recover his breath, but he knew that had they been broken, he never would have been able to maintain the pace of the march. Jacob sat next to him, his elbows on his knees, his head supported by his hands. He was shaking and had retched as they finally came to a halt.

"You okay?" Porthos asked quietly from the side of his mouth. He couldn't be sure whether their guards spoke French or not, and they had already witnessed how their Spanish captors dealt with injured or invaluable prisoners.

"Fine…took a blow to the head in the battle. Marching is fine. Unfortunately, when I stop, the world doesn't…just takes a little to settle."

A call came from the campfire and with a smirk, the guards who had been standing nearby joined the others. Wine was passed to them as the torturous and tantalizing smell of cooking meat wafted towards the captives. Porthos stared at the young Spaniard who looked a little too much like a phantom of D'Artagnan. It was eerie and Porthos had to look away.

Porthos glanced quickly at Vincent and Stefan who worriedly eyed the former blacksmith.

"It's worse than earlier," said Stefan.

"I should be fine. Just need to rest," said Jacob with a deep sigh as he leaned back and settled himself against the tree as well.

Vincent frowned. "You've got a concussion. We'll have to wake you throughout the night…just in case."

"Head injuries can be tricky," said Porthos echoing one of Aramis' common refrains. "Were you able to pick up anything from their blather?" Porthos asked Vincent with a quick glance towards the boisterous guards. The guards seemed to be a jovial group in their own company, save for that sullen young man who sat a little removed from the others, silently stoking the fire.

"We should reach our destination tomorrow, sometime around dusk. The ship's called_ La Dama Cantante_ – the singing lady. They have some headquarters in town. They plan to smuggle us onto the ship as the sun rises so we're out with the morning tide," said Victor.

"We'll need to make our move before we get on that ship. Once aboard we're lost," said Stefan tersely.

Porthos nodded. "We aren't going to get anywhere shackled here like this. Our best bet is to wait until we get into town. This lot don't seem too disciplined. It's likely that they'll be distracted when we reach the town."

"Let's hope the girls there are pretty and the ale's cheap," muttered Jacob.

"Question is, how are we going to escape? We're defenceless unless you're hiding a blade on you somewhere," Stefan replied.

Jacob sat up straight suddenly. "Not a blade," he whispered and looked furtively around them, "But something that may help us free ourselves of these shackles. A lucky charm," he said as his fingers reached into the waistband of his trouser. He slyly pulled out a thin metal barb.

"What's that?" asked Vincent, looking back towards where the guards were gathered.

"It's a pick," said Porthos with a grin.

Jacob grinned back. "I told you, I used to be a blacksmith. The number of times this little tool has saved me…"

"If I can pick the lock on these chains, it'll have saved us all," said Porthos. "Put it away quickly," he said as two guards stumbled back towards them. The way they swayed hinted at their drunkenness, but the way they held their pistols showed that they were dangerous and seemed to scream their mantra: a dead captive was better than an escaped captive.

oOo

They rose late to begin their march; the guards' indulgences from the night before had them moving slower than expected, but was a welcome relief to their recovering prisoners.

They entered the harbour town and were quickly stowed in a warehouse near the docks where a small Spanish ship was moored; a large singing figurehead was at its bow. The four men were ushered into a stall at the rear of the building and left exhausted with their daily ration to divide amongst themselves.

The ship's crew had gathered to meet the soldiers; suddenly their number of captors had doubled. As the sun dipped bloodily towards the sea, the guards poured out the door to the calls of the tavern and the brothel in town. Seven remained and were seated outside the door, a few bottles of wine lined up at their feet to keep them company.

oOo


	5. Chapter 5

Impossible Choices

Chapter 5

Athos and Aramis pulled into the harbour town just as the sun burned like a scarlet glimmer where it fought for air against the sea waves. They had stowed their cloaks, pauldrons, and horses at an inn on the outskirts of town. They walked the streets as civilians taking note of the number of Spaniards they witnessed buzzing to and from the brothel and tavern like flies in pursuit of honey.

They settled in at the tavern – Athos watching the Spanish soldiers and sailors that were gathered from a corner table, while Aramis did what he did best and charmed information out of the doe-eyed serving girl. He left her blushing and staring dreamily after him until the tavern owner scolded her to pay attention to the other guests who were clamouring for more ale.

"The Spanish have a warehouse they've been using down by the docks – fourth one from the end. Their ship is called The Singing Lady. It's due to sail with tomorrow's tide. It's unlikely that there are many others on the ship other than the crew in town," said Aramis as he took his seat with Athos and raised a cup of wine to his lips casually.

Athos still casually surveyed the room and its occupants. "Porthos indicated that they had ten guards accompany them. I've counted that many men here this evening. It's safe to say there's an equal number at the brothel up the road and a comparable number standing guard…"

"Thirty men?"

"If we're being prudent," replied Athos as Aramis raised his eyebrow and took another sip from his glass.

"What are you thinking?" Aramis asked as he lowered his glass and observed the gleam coming to Athos' eyes.

"I'm simply recalling a tale you once told about your past experiences with a ship..."

Aramis grinned at Athos as he leaned forward placing his elbows on the table. "Now Athos," he said, "I clearly recall you admonishing me as I regaled our youngest with that account…something about my being reckless…"

Athos smirked. "Coming from you, the plan is reckless. From me, it's strategic," he said.

Aramis grinned, his dark eyes sparkling with their usual sense of mischief and adventure. "Let's agree to disagree. What did you have in mind?"

oOo

Porthos sat in the stall working on the locked shackles around his ankles. The others leant casually forward, obstructing Porthos from the view of their guards. A quick look around the warehouse made it clear that the only way out would be through the guards and out the front doors.

Diligently, Porthos prodded the lock's interior with the thin barb. His brow was furrowed in concentration as he carefully manipulated the tool. Finally, there was a soft click and one ankle was freed. Porthos quickly shifted his focus to his other ankle, the others looking back at him with excitement.

The second lock opened easier. He freed his ankle from the metal clasp as loud voices indicated that the guards were returning for an inspection. Out of time and options, Porthos stood and stepped back into the shadows of the stall, the shackles dangling from his hand.

His absence was noticed immediately and the guard issued a strangled cry to the others by the door. The cry died quickly as the metal tether made contact with the guard's head and he fell heavily to the floor. Three others rushed forward as Porthos swung the heavy iron bindings at another Spanish guard. He roared as he threw his elbow into the face of one of their captors and he fought like a bear for his freedom.

He stopped suddenly as a pistol was fired into the air. The sullen young man who looked so much like D'Artagnan held one smoking pistol in his hand and the other trained on Porthos.

"Basta," (_Stop)_ he said coldly.

Porthos growled and gripped his chains tighter.

"Basta," the young man repeated and shifted his aim so it rested on Jacob.

Porthos took a deep breath and exhaled angrily. He bitterly tossed the shackles down at the man's feet.

"Lo atan," _(Bind him) _came the command. Two guards leapt forward and roughly pulled Porthos' wrists in front of him, binding him tightly. A blow to his side had him falling forward onto his knees.

"Colgarlo" _(Hang him) _the young man said stonily. No change in expression came over him as another rope was wrapped around Porthos' wrists and pulled him tightly to his feet so he was practically suspended from the thick beam above them. His toes fought to find purchase to give any relief to the pain in his wrists and the throbbing ache in his side that his stretched position was causing.

The crack of the whip rent the air behind him.

oOo

Having left the tavern, Athos and Aramis made their way along the boardwalk towards where the Spanish vessel sat moored, her robust singing figurehead brightly identifying their target. Gulls were making one last feast of the few errant crabs that still scuttled from shallow to shallow at low tide. In a few hours the tide would return and the ship would be pushing out to sea with a most treasured cargo unless Athos and Aramis took action.

They had passed the warehouse where the Spanish were likely keeping Porthos and made note of the men that were gathered at its entrance passing a few bottles of wine back and forth in the glow of the oil lamps that dotted the boardwalk.

A few sailors marched across the deck of the ship staring longingly at the shore. Athos and Aramis crept down to the seabed and silently pushed a small skiff out into the darkness of the shallows. Carefully Athos steered the small boat towards the vessel.

Aramis stood and peered into the ship through one of its gunports. He carefully lifted a length of rope tied around a small cask and fed it through the opening. The rope was slick with oil; from its dangling end hung a bottle with a wad of fabric stuffed into its neck. Raising the bucket that had held this coil, bottle and cask, Aramis poured the remaining contents along as much of the ship's side and gunwale as possible.

"It might be best if you light our fuse," said Aramis indicating the lamp oil now coating his gloves. Athos smirked and the two shifted positions. Carefully Athos lit the fabric and Aramis silently pulled them back to shore as the voices of several drunken sailors returning to their ship could be heard from the docks above them.

Landing on the shore, Aramis and Athos leapt from the skiff. The lit fuse was hardly visible. Aramis raised his harquebus from his hip and carefully took aim.

The starter flickered.

He breathed softly on the lit wick. It was a still night with no breeze, so the bottle dangled tantalizingly next to the ship, its rope leading up to certain chaos.

Athos watched as the men loaded onto their boat, laughing and chatting loudly.

"Are you sure this will work?" he asked. Aramis grinned.

"It did last time," he said and with that he exhaled and pulled the trigger.

The bottle exploded with the impact of the ball and the flames leapt up the length of the rope. The excess oil immediately caught fire and a thick smoke began to billow from the ship's side. Concerned shouts of the Spanish sailors and soldiers could be heard as the haze made its way onto the deck of the ship. Several hands ran to assess what was catching fire.

Athos and Aramis did not stay to watch. As the flames took hold, the pair sped their way back up onto the boardwalk towards the fourth warehouse from the end. As the Spanish fought the heavy smoke to determine its cause, Aramis was counting down.

The explosion that emanated from the ship was deafening as planks of wood were tossed like confetti into the night in a blaze of bright orange as the cask of lamp oil that had been fed through the gunport finally erupted. As shouts and screams accompanied the chaos, Athos and Aramis broke cover and ran pell-mell towards their destination warehouse. Neither stopped to witness the catastrophe on the ship, nor did they react as further explosions echoed across the water as whatever other cargo the ship was carrying caught fire and erupted. They didn't stop as a loud groan rent the air as The Singing Lady's large mast teetered in its final aria before crashing to the deck in a cacophony of splintered wood and rigging.

oOo

Porthos hung from the ceiling, his wrists searing with pain as the shackles cut into his already chafed wrists. His toes scrabbled for purchase on the ground to alleviate the strain, as his side throbbed with every beat of his heart. He felt a slow trickle on his side indicating that the stitches had been torn. The young man's brown eyes looked at Porthos as he hung there glaring back at him.

The remoteness of the young man was unconscionable. Porthos growled at him and tossed his few choice Spanish words at the man in an attempt to jostle him into some kind of indication that he was human. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was looking at the ghost of his brother – one whose pained cry he had last heard on the battlefield.

No, Porthos thought. D'Artagnan was alive. His brothers would come for him.

The young man stared into Porthos' eyes as the first lash fell. Porthos refused to cry out.

"Otro," _(Again) _he said unenthusiastically. The whip struck again. "Otro" came the cold reply.

Another lash fell and Jacob cried out in protest as Porthos' shirt tore and he began to bleed. Two more blows fell and still the young man called for more as the French captives protested helplessly from where they were shackled.

Porthos was breathing heavily as he continued to remain on his feet. He smiled menacingly at the young man, goading him on. Finally, Porthos saw something flicker across the young face – a moment of uncertainty.

Suddenly an explosion could be heard outside followed by a series of others. Everyone froze. Everyone was silent as the echoes of screams and shouts filtered to them across the harbour. The young man took the lash in his hand and gestured for two of his men to go see what happened.

Porthos grinned wickedly at the cold young man.

"Mis hermanos," _(My brothers) _Porthos sneered at him, and once more that flicker of uncertainty crossed his gaze, but a slow smile crept to his face as he adjusted his grip on the whip and moved to Porthos' backside.

oOo

* * *

_**A/N: Will Porthos escape? Will Athos and Aramis get to him in time? Having left D'Artagnan behind, will he recover? Find out when the adventure concludes tomorrow! Same Bat-time, same Bat-channel!**_

_**Please note, I speak Italian and French, not Spanish, so any errors in translation are strictly the fault of Google! **_

_**Thanks for reading! **__**Cheers!**_


	6. Chapter 6

Impossible Choices

Chapter 6

Another lash blow fell as the shout echoed from the docks.

Porthos' back was a mess now. As the other guards moved warily towards the warehouse door, the young man drew back to deliver another wicked strike. That blow never fell.

The warehouse door was kicked open suddenly and a pistol shot rang out accompanied by the increased volume of the chaos outside.

Aramis ran through the room smashing the butt of his spent pistol into the side of the head of one of the Spanish guards as he made his way towards Porthos. Athos' had his rapier drawn and was quickly occupied with two other men who had come charging across the warehouse. He deftly plunged his rapier through the chest of the first attacker, while dispersing the next with a swift flash of his main gauche. Aramis pulled his other pistol and fired it, severing the rope that held Porthos suspended from the overhead beam as another of the guards rushed towards him.

Porthos fell heavily to his knees, but recovered quickly.

From his knees, he brought his bound hands into the torso of the remaining guard standing near him. The man doubled over as the wind was knocked out of him. Porthos leapt to his feet and drove his elbows down onto the back of the guard so he fell forward onto the ground. Porthos swung his bound wrists like a club so the shackles connected with the man's temple and he was knocked unconscious.

Athos and Aramis were dispatching their final opponents as the young Spanish guard struggled to his feet. He was bleeding from his chest where Aramis' shot had hit him. He raised his dagger and launched himself at Porthos.

Porthos grabbed the outstretched arm with both of his bound hands and pushed back against the young man until he was pressed against the wall. Porthos leaned heavily on his forearms, which pinned the man in place and impeded his breath; he slowly turned the blade upon its owner. The remote brown eyes widened as the blade penetrated his neck. Suddenly, a look of relief and shock danced into those eyes.

As the warm blood coursed down Porthos' arms as he held the man in place, the young man smiled slightly, a bashful young smile that shook Porthos to his core.

Porthos let him fall and then knelt at the man's side. In those last moments before his death, whatever last vestiges of innocence and youth sprang back to the man's face and his resemblance to D'Artagnan was uncanny.

The adrenaline was fading quickly from him and the intense pain at his side, back and wrists returned with an unholy vengeance. Porthos brushed the hair back from the lad's face; in the flickering torchlight, Porthos could have sworn it was D'Artagnan who now lay dead before him. But it couldn't be, could it? What had he done? Had he just killed his brother? But what choice did he have? Porthos' head swam with delirium as the likely infection from the wound to his side finally won out.

"D'Artagnan," Porthos muttered once again as his pain and grief overcame him suddenly as he fell slowly to the floor. The cries of Aramis and Athos echoed dimly in his ears.

oOo

Silence covered him like a blanket and was interrupted only by the soft crackle of firewood somewhere off to his side. He could have lain there forever if the burning pain in his back wasn't growing in force. He shifted uncomfortably which only made it worse and a sudden surge had him gasping for air as his side also flared suddenly.

His eyes snapped open and his breaths came in sudden strangled gasps as visions of his last known surroundings flashed into his mind.

"Porthos!" cried a voice, "Calm down! You're safe mon ami, you're safe!"

Hands were on his face suddenly, cupping his cheek and running through his hair in a calming manner as his eyes focused on the familiar eyes of the medic in front of him.

"Mis!" he rasped as he struggled to control his breathing. "You came…"

"Of course, brother, of course," he said soothingly, his deep brown eyes bursting with a tenderness that Porthos well recognized in his brother.

"Did you think we'd allow you to set sail without us?" came the dry drawl of Athos from his other side. He turned his head to face his other brother whose face bore one of his rare and precious smiles, eyes bright and gleaming in his direction. Porthos grinned back.

"Not for a moment," he rasped and then grimaced as the pain seared through his back again.

"Easy, easy my friend. You are in quite the state," said Aramis.

"Where am I?"

"At an inn that we have commandeered for you and your companions' recovery," said Captain Treville appearing suddenly in Porthos' eye line.

"Captain!" Porthos gasped. "What are you doing here?"

"I received an urgent note stating that one of my men and some other French soldiers had been captured and were to be sold into slavery, and now I find myself in the unenviable diplomatic situation of explaining to the Spanish Ambassador that he will not be compensated for the loss of his men or the destruction of what he claims was only a trading vessel," said Treville, his eyes flickering towards Athos and Aramis whose mischievous grins belied their attempts at innocence.

"Another ship, 'Mis? You'll have ta explain that one to me later. The others. They alright?"

"They are due to return to return to Toulouse but wanted to wait until you had awoken before setting out on their return journey. You've been out for nearly three days. Infection," said Treville.

Porthos nodded and shifted again. He hissed as his back flared once more.

"Careful Porthos, your back has just begun to knit and your side will look like a darned sock if I need to put more stitches into it," said Aramis admonishing gently, lifting a cup to Porthos' lip. He drank deeply before grimacing as he recognized the familiar bitter taste. Aramis grinned. "It's for the best. Finish it. You'll heal better if you're resting."

Porthos frowned, but he could already feel the pull of the draught, so he finished it without saying anything more and easily slipped back to sleep.

oOo

He woke up some time later to the sensation of someone rubbing a salve onto his damaged wrists.

"D'Artagnan…you're alright…" he muttered as the young man's smiling face came into focus.

"Just slightly better than you are," he said as he grimaced slightly as he shifted his position.

"I heard you cry out," Porthos explained, "And then in the warehouse…I thought he was…I thought you had died…he looked so much like ya…but not…" Porthos said and his brow furrowed in confusion. D'Artagnan frowned slightly as he tried to process what Porthos was trying to say.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there Porthos…I wanted to be so badly…but Aramis -"

"Aramis said that you were supposed to remain in bed and recover. You definitely should not have come racing across the country on horseback so soon after your injury," interrupted the medic who entered with Athos, carrying a tray laden with dinner.

The Gascon blushed and ducked his head embarrassedly as the medic glared at him. "To be fair, you said I'd be fine to move about in a few days, so when Treville arrived, I was able to join him…"

"You collapsed when you got here," Athos deadpanned, a slight smirk tugging at his lips. D'Artagnan scowled, but was comforted slightly by the wheezy chuckle that Porthos exhumed.

"You could have seriously injured yourself…further," Aramis scolded as he handed D'Artagnan a bowl of stew. "You were reckless."

"Says the man who blew up his second ship?" said D'Artagnan indignantly.

Aramis grinned, the fire of challenge in his eyes. "Apparently with Athos' approval, recklessness is now considered strategic." They laughed as Athos shook his head slightly and poured them all a glass of wine.

"Did you have another plan to distract 20 or so men?" quipped Athos.

With a fire at his side, a warm bowl of stew and the warmer conversation and presence of his brothers surrounding him, Porthos was happier than he could believe. To have come so close to losing everything – to being taken aboard a ship to never see the lands of his birth or the faces of his loved ones again – only to now be engulfed in everything he held dear was almost more than he could take.

His eyes began to droop once more and Athos took the empty bowl from his sagging hands.

Porthos looked around and met the tender gaze of each man. "Knew you'd come," he said faithfully.

"Of course we would, Porthos. We couldn't go on without you," said D'Artagnan fervently.

"Carrying on without you was never an option," said Athos.

"All for one," said Aramis emotionally, his dark eyes sparkling.

"And one for all"

oooooooooooooooooooooo

* * *

_**A/N: Thank you so much for reading and to everyone for your great reviews! Hope you've enjoyed this little adventure. The brotherhood keeps us going! Cheers!**_


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